


Mass Media

by dianekepler



Series: Drabbles of the Commonwealth [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Fantasy, Guilt, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Male Solo, Poor Arthur, Smut With Pictures, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 14:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7621942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianekepler/pseuds/dianekepler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by Saiyuri's sweet and utterly NSFW <a href="http://saiyuri-thedragonborn.tumblr.com/post/148154225293/i-cant-believe-this-actually-turned-out-better">screencap series</a> of Maxson "looking at" the Ad Victoriam <a href="http://crystalgraziano.storenvy.com/collections/311937-art-prints/products/15730557-11x17-ad-victoriam-print">poster</a> we all know and love.  </p><p>Dedicated to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/hbrooks/pseuds/hbrooks">hbrooks</a>. (P.S. Join us in the BOS Dumpster! We have hot guys, even if they're bigoted and repressed.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mass Media

Arthur can call up any detail of the ridiculous poster without having to look. Yet somehow this ritual always finds him in front of it: hunched over, cold, patellae pressed into metal until they hurt. The Elder stops short of actually kneeling on the deck, although he has imagined doing that more than once. Bending forward is, instead, protection from and supplication to the perfect image on the curling, faded medium above.

He strokes the very tip of a glans that has been heavy with lust for what feels like hours, although he cannot give in so soon. He must wait. Deny himself even as he allows this transgression to proceed.

_I’m waiting._

The paladin’s voice in Arthur’s mind conjures the sensation of iron hand on the flesh of his shoulder -- gripping, fingers digging in. This despite earthly Danse being his advisor. His finest exemplar of moral conduct. 

A sharply pinched cockhead makes him wilt but then pound headily back to attention. 

_Say it._

Danse is also his friend. From when Arthur was nothing but an awkward child steeped in fantasy. Who reached out to him, even when Sarah Lyons did not. 

The rank and file can author this filth. Print it. Though it shames them and the Brotherhood, they can reverently trace the lines of Danse’s body, or engage in more sordid “target practise” until Kells’ sidearm burns a hole through the offending material and the Lancer Captain sets them to emptying latrines during the hottest part of the day. 

But he is Arthur Maxson, for whom any non-procreative liaison would bet treasonous. The West Coast has been so very insistent already. Two years of dispatches. Two years of claiming no suitable partner could be found. And now that they are at war again, there is hardly time ….

Excuses spin in his mind, even as blood leaves it. With slitted eyes and careful observation, he can see how the pulse in his wrist moves in time with the throbbing evidence of his failure. 

_Tell me right now or I’ll finish and you’ll get nothing._

“Danse….”

It is why the Elder pushes himself. Running, lifting, fearing that any sparring session with the paladin or anyone else in his weight class, might betray what is uppermost in his mind. 

“Please,” he says with the urgent timbre he imagines Danse would like to hear. 

_Tell me all of it._

“I want you.”

Shuttered eyes allow Arthur to imagine Danse as having shed the armor. Lounging with legs apart and beckoning with just his eyes. 

_What do you want?_

“Anything ….”

He has learned that actually saying the words allows him longer respites.

_Come here._

Arthur’s own fingers in his mouth are a poor substitute for the magnificence he envisions, but they must serve, until he can imagine Danse flooding his mouth with the sharp essence that, in practice, he may never taste. The hand on his cock becomes Danse’s. It tempers him. It demands proof of the Elder’s need even as it roughly squeezes Arthur at the base to make it clear that the timing, even the permission, are entirely up to the older man. 

_That’s it. Keep going._

Balls tight, teeth clamped hard together. If only Danse would — 

_Now._

A sob, as Arthur leans so far forward that strands of hair brush the sides of his contorted face. He is a wellspring, surging onto the deck and cabinet’s rusted side. Ecstatic thrumming of his cock and battered heart are all that matter as he steals his breath back from the confines of this room. 

Then a moment. To rest his forehead and the non-thought behind it on cold metal. Before the guilt swells and he must rouse himself to cleanse his skin if not his conscience. 

The final piece of evidence to be hidden is that poster. As he does every time. Arthur smoothes down the old map of a Commonwealth from centuries past. From a time when it functioned -- and was free.


End file.
